


The You Don't Have A Partner Affair

by Section VII (girlintheglen)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Round Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 14:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19200712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/Section%20VII
Summary: This is the Spring Round Robin originally posted on Section VII of Live Journal. The writers of each chapter are included in the headings.





	1. Chapter 1 by JantoJones

After glancing at his watch, Napoleon Solo looked out of the car window at the sky.  
  
“It’ll be getting dark soon,” he said to his partner, who was trying to keep his eyes on the road while yawning. “How long until we get back?”  
  
“At least four hours,” Illya replied wearily, after glancing at his own watch. “You will have to take over soon as I am about to fall asleep.”  
  
Solo wasn’t surprised that Illya was tired. The man had taken yet another beating during their escape from a Thrush satrapy and, although he wasn’t injured, he was bruised and exhausted. He’d given back more than he’d received, but that in itself was enough to drain anyone.  
  
“You should have said earlier,” he mildly admonished. “Maybe we should try and find somewhere to bed down for the night. I don’t feel like driving in the dark, and we’ve already given our verbal reports. Pull over and we’ll switch.”  
  
Once their journey resumed, Illya contacted HQ and apprised Waverly of their plan. The Old Man readily agreed, but warned them not to take liberties with their expense accounts.  
  
“Guess we’ll be sharing again,” Napoleon commented after Illya had closed the channel.  
  
It took fifteen minutes more travel before they found what they needed. The motel looked a little shabby, but not too bad. Besides, they’d slept in far worse places. As long the beds were relatively comfortable, and a hot shower could be had, that’s all Napoleon cared about.  
  
“This’ll do,” he commented.  
  
Receiving no response, he looked across to find his partner sleeping deeply. It seemed almost a shame to wake him from his slumber, but Napoleon was hardly likely to carry him in like a child. Within a matter of minutes, the two men were in their room. Illya said nothing as he stripped to his underwear, deposited his clothes on the floor, and climbed into bed. He was asleep instantly. Napoleon chuckled as he performed a perfunctory search of the room. He quickly used the bathroom and then, before settling down to sleep himself, he set the alarm for the next morning.  
  
............................................................................................  
  
The alarm clock rang out its call, sounding far too loud in the quiet room. It filtered into the mind of Napoleon and pushed away the sensual image of Jennifer. Or was it Alison. It may even have been Philipa. From beneath the blanket, where he was cosily cocooned, Napoleon groaned. Surely it wasn’t morning already. Unwilling to emerge from his warm nest, Napoleon waited for his partner to silence the alarm. However, it soon became clear that Illya wasn’t going to do anything.   
  
Poking his head out, Napoleon soon discovered why Illya hadn’t done anything. He wasn’t there. Solo quieted the noise and stared in confusion at the other bed. It was neatly made and showed no evidence of anyone ever having been there. He abruptly sat up and looked around the room but could see nothing which belonged to his partner. Napoleon sprang out of bed and darted to the bathroom, knowing that he would find no-one there.  
  
From the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging on the back of the door, Napoleon’s communicator began to chirrup. He grabbed the device and hurriedly assembled it.  
  
“Illya!?”  
  
“I beg your pardon, Mr Solo?” asked the voice of Mr Waverly.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sir. I thought you might be Illya. He’s disappeared.”  
  
“Who on Earth is Illya?” Waverly demanded.  
  
Napoleon glared at the communicator with a puzzled expression.  
  
“Illya Kuryakin,” he replied. “My partner.”  
  
There was a long silence which was finally broken by the Old Man. What he said caused Napoleon to freeze.  
  
“I don’t know to whom you are referring, Mr Solo. You have not had a partner for over two years, and we have never had an agent named Illya Kuryakin.”  
  
“I don’t understand. . .” Napoleon began, but was cut off by his boss.  
  
“It seems you have been adversely affected by something, no doubt another insidious Thrush concoction. Whatever the case may be, we will investigate it upon your return. When will that be?”  
  
“I’m just under four hours away, but I would prefer to remain here.”  
  
“Mr Solo!”  
  
“Hear me out, Sir.”  
  
He explained that, given he was absolutely convinced of the existence of Illya Kuryakin, he should probably investigate why. Clearly, since Waverly was certain that there was no such man, something must have happened to give Napoleon that memory.  
  
“Very well, Mr Solo,” Waverly agreed gruffly. “You have twenty-four hours.”  
  
...........................................................................................  
  
The sound of the alarm clock penetrated though to Illya Kuryakin’s subconscious, dispelling the nightmare which had been threatening to emerge from the shadows of his past. Pulling the blankets more tightly around him, he mumbled for Napoleon to stop the noise. The alarm continued to ring out, prompting Illya to call out more loudly that before. When this still elicited no response he flung the blankets away and shut it down himself. That was when he noticed that there was no-one in the other bed; nor had it been slept in.  
  
It wasn’t unusual for Napoleon to go hunting for some female company, but Illya was concerned that there was no indication of his partner at all. Getting up, he pulled on the clothes he had left dumped on the floor, and retrieved his communicator from his jacket. Before he had a chance to put it together it chirruped with an incoming channel.  
  
“Napoleon?” he said, once the device was assembled.  
  
“Are you expecting a call from a dead French emperor, Mr Kuryakin?” asked Alexander Waverly, tersely.  
  
“I thought you might be my partner, Sir,” Illya explained, wondering why the Old Man would say such a thing. “I can’t seem to find him.”  
  
“Did you receive a head injury on your assignment?” Waverly asked. “You know full well you have no partner; especially one with such a ludicrous name.”  
  
“Napoleon Solo, Sir,” the Russian pressed. “The CEA. Head of Section 2.”  
  
“As you are perfectly aware, Mr Kuryakin, you are CEA and head of Section 2. Although, should you continue in this vein, your position may well be in jeopardy.”


	2. Chapter 2 by girlintheglen

The initial shock of his conversation with Waverly settled into a fierce determination to solve the mystery of his missing partner and why his boss was feigning ignorance of his existence.  Napoleon had to retrace their steps, examine the room and …

 

 

“Wow Solo, you must have had too much of whatever THRUSH poured into you.” Aloud, it sounded like something a man might say when faced with a dilemma such as this.  Silently, Napoleon began to formulate a scenario in which both he and Illya were being manipulated into thinking they were each out of their minds.

 

Still not fully dressed, Napoleon went into the bathroom and shut the door.  He assumed that if this were some sort of orchestrated deception, there might be cameras in the room.  He hoped that didn’t include the bathroom, but his actions were careful nonetheless, accepting that anyone who would go this far might be without any regard for his privacy.

 

Still holding the communicator, his first instinct was that Waverly was also being controlled, but that gave way to something less dire than infiltrating UNCLE HQ.  Solo had a pen communicator, and Waverly, or whoever that man was, had contacted him first.  It was a tactic, to set a type of parameter to this little scheme.  Napoleon began to examine the slender instrument, looking for something unique to his communicator, thanks to having dropped it near a vat of acid.

 

There was no sign of the slight discoloration left by that encounter.  This was not his communicator. This situation was… What was it? A trap, a kidnapping…

 

And where was Illya?

 

:~:

 

There were flaws in the subterfuge, little touches that screamed spy craft rather than THRUSH.  The attempt to disorient him, and probably Napoleon as well, were elements that spoke to Illya as tactics of the KGB or CIA.  Because it was slightly less brutal, Illya assumed CIA.

 

One thing that convinced him it wasn’t THRUSH was the lack of symptoms he normally suffered from their drugs and serums.  There was no hangover, no headache.  Illya ran his fingers through his hair, finger combing it as he might normally do.

 

He felt it, just below the nape.  It was a small prick in his skin, the point of injection.  Drugs without a reaction.  Not THRUSH.

 

But why the ruse? Why not just take him?  It was not like the CIA to be subtle where he was concerned.  They were, in most cases, openly hostile and mistrustful of him, even with Waverly’s endorsement.

 

And, what about Waverly? That conversation must not have been with his superior, but an imposter.  He picked up the communicator and called the man.

 

“Sir, Kuryakin here…’ Illya launched into a conversation in Russian, expecting a response in kind.  Waverly answered the query, in perfect Russian.

 

“Spacibo” Illya had his answer.  Waverly didn’t speak Russian.

 

~:~

 

Napoleon had to think.  Not Waverly, not THRUSH, he was certain of it.  And if he was in the same motel room, and all of them looked alike, perhaps Illya was in one that looked identical to his.

 

_Who was behind this?_

 

Last night they had been only a few hours north of the City.  Legally, the CIA didn’t have jurisdiction in this country.  But the room was the same, so maybe it was KGB.  Maybe they wanted Illya back and couldn’t get to him without…

 

No, that didn’t make any sense.

 

“What the hell?” He said it aloud, not bothering to hide his frustration. As if on cue, the communicator began to trill.

 

“Solo here.” He heard the pause, like someone preparing to speak.

 

“Mr. Solo, do you still have intentions to remain in your present location?’’  Napoleon listened intently, his attention to detail more important than ever.  What did hear in this man’s voice?

 

“Ah, yes sir, if that’s all right with you.' Napoleon had an idea...  
  
"By the way, did you get the report back on Agent Allen’s encounter with, umm… I forget the THRUSH agent’s name.” He needed to keep the man talking, to allow a better scope of comparison.

 

The other man hesitated, something that might have been a Waverly characteristic.

 

“Ahh, yes Mister Solo, I have it in front of me. But that is not your concern at the moment.  I am sending an escort to deliver you back to Headquarters.”  Napoleon straightened up at that.

 

“Sir? Why do I need an escort?” Play along, see where it leads.

 

“I do not intend to explain myself.  Just be ready in an hour. Waverly out.”

 

Napoleon closed the cap on his communicator.  He had his answer.  _There was no Agent Allen_. The other man was an imposter.

 

Illya had to be close by.  He and his partner thought alike, and no doubt the Russian was fully aware by now that this was all an elaborate scheme, but to what end?

 

The plan was simple: find Illya.


	3. Chapter 3 by Alynwa

Napoleon sat on his bed and reviewed his conversations with “Mr. Waverly.”   _He told me in our first conversation that I could stay for twenty – four hours to sort things out, but now he’s told me to be ready in an hour.  What’s changed?_   He gazed out the window and mouthed a silent curse because he hadn’t looked outside last night so he had no way of knowing if the scenery was the same.   _Obviously, I was drugged somehow and I assume Illya was, too._ One  _of us has been moved or maybe both of us._  
  
He checked his wallet and his weapons; nothing was amiss.   _But then, why would it be?  Whoever is behind this is confident that I have accepted that I was speaking with the “Old Man” and awaiting transport to Headquarters.  So now I need to decide how to play this out: Should I remain in this room waiting or what?_ He checked his watch and decided to step outside to look around the place.  
  
He saw the rental car they had arrived in and pulled the key from his jacket pocket.  He walked around it and not seeing anything out of place, opened the trunk to look inside.  It looked the way he remembered it.  He then got into the driver’s seat and checked the odometer.   _Unless they pay very close attention to details, this car hasn’t moved since last night._ Leaning forward so that his chest was against the steering wheel, he looked up at the motel’s façade.   _Nothing’s jumping out to me as looking different from last night.  Illya’s been taken and I’ve been left behind.  That means I’m still a three and a half to four-hour drive from Headquarters, but that imposter said an escort was coming in an hour._  
    
He exited the vehicle and walked down to the road and looked both ways.  “So, what have we learned today, kiddies?” he asked aloud.  “That I’m not crazy: Illya Kuryakin, my partner does exist.  We are the subject of some kind of attack that I don’t think involves THRUSH.  My communicator was switched out when they took Illya.  The man I spoke to earlier is not Mr. Waverly.  I’m still at the motel and Illya’s been moved which could only be possible if we had been drugged.”  
    
He bent down, picked up a stone and threw it “skip style” down the road.  “I also know,” he continued on as he slapped his hands together to rid them of dirt, “that they aren’t as smart as they think they are because that fake Waverly didn’t know there’s no Agent Allen  _and_  I noticed it isn’t my communicator.  The fact that I was originally told I had twenty – four hours to investigate my Illya memory only to be told not long after that to expect an escort in an hour tells me something changed their plans and they have to rush.”  Just then, a car crested the hill about a half – mile away.  “That’s probably my ride.”  Impulsively, he raised his arm and waved with a huge smile on his face as they got closer.   _I think the best way to find Illya is to let this play out and see what happens._  
        
Illya was slowly pacing his room, communicator in hand, absentmindedly twiddling it between his fingers as he thought about his situation.  He was now completely certain that not only was this not some kind of THRUSH plot, this was neither CIA nor KGB.   _Whether or not Mr. Waverly speaks Russian is a simple thing to find out; the KGB would never make such a mistake!_ But the imposter had spoken like a native with no trace of any non – Russian accent.   _This leads me to believe that someone from my past has resurfaced with an agenda.  Revenge, perhaps?  But why not just kill me in my sleep?  Why try to convince me that Napoleon does not exist?  Whoever is doing this, they want something from me.  If I am correct, my life is not in danger.  Not yet.  But what of Napoleon’s life?_  
  
Just then, his communicator began to trill.  Assembling it quickly he said, “Kuryakin here.”  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin,” the imposter said, “I need you to return to Headquarters immediately; there have been some major changes occurring in several affairs that you and I need to discuss.”  
  
“Understood, Sir.  I will be on my way as soon as we finish speaking.”  
  
“I have sent a Section III team to retrieve you.  Given that you have apparently dreamed up an imaginary partner, I feel it’s best that you not drive.  Just relax until they get there.  They should be arriving shortly.  Waverly out.”  
  
The  _snick_ sound indicated the transmission had ended.  The Russian checked his weapon and pockets.  He had two full clips; one darts and the other bullets.  He had four bullets and five darts in his Walther.  
    
He stepped out of the room and looked around.  He had been so exhausted last night, Napoleon had to wake him to go to the room and he had just stripped and flopped into bed, trusting that Napoleon would secure the room.  He had not noticed what the motel exterior had looked like, but he had not been so out of it that he didn’t know what kind of car they had rented.  It wasn’t in the parking lot.  
  
_If my theory is correct, I have been taken.  Perhaps they left Napoleon where they found us.  I think the only way I can find out what happened to Napoleon and who is orchestrating this is to continue to act as if I suspect nothing._ The honk of a horn pulled him out of his thoughts.  
  
There were two men in the black sedan.  “Agent Kuryakin, I’m Agent Thomas and this is Agent Robinson from Section III.  Are you ready?”  
  
He nodded and got into the backseat.  “Let us go.”   
  


	4. Chapter 4 by jkkitty

Napoleon watched the car slide before him.   “Mr. Solo, I’m agent Smith, and this is Agent Hope from Section 3.   Mr. Waverly asked us to pick you up and bring you in.”  
  
“Hi guys. Are we picking up Kuryakin also?” Napoleon asked climbing in the back of the car.     
  
“Sorry sir, but who is Kuryakin?”  The driver, Smith, asked.  
  
“My partner,” Napoleon knew where this was going but felt he needed to see how far this sham went.  
  
“I don’t know anything about picking up Kuryakin.  We were told just to pick you up.” Hope informed him.  
  
“I see.  How come the early pickup?  I was scheduled to come in later today.”  
  
“You know what the old man is like.   When he makes up his mind, you just jump when he says jump. Probably afraid you’ll pad your expense account.  So how did your mission go sir?” Smith laughed.  
  
“As always, a little sneaking, a little running, and a big blast from my partner. At least this time my suit doesn’t have to be replaced.”  
  
“I’m sure it’s never a problem to get a replacement suit as you are risking your life, sir,” Hope said.   
“Did you get what you went after?”  
  
“You know that’s an inappropriate question, Hope.”  Napoleon chided him.   
  
“Sorry, sir.   But you know us Section 3 agents look forward to the stories of your adventures.”  
  
“Just keep the questions acceptable from now on,” Napoleon turned to the window in silence.     
A little later he said, “Isn’t this the wrong way?”  
  
“Mr. Waverly said to bring you in the backway sir, so this is a shortcut to the back of the building,”  Hope assured him.  
  
“Pull over.  I don’t like this.  I’m going to check in with Waverly to see what’s going on.” Napoleon ordered.  
  
Trying to open the door he found the lock engaged.  A moment later a divider window raised as gas began to fill the back of the car.   Napoleon was able to get his small breathing device in before becoming overcome by the gas.  
  
  
Illya nodded to the two men in the sedan.   “Do you have orders to pick up Agent Solo also?”  
  
“Mr. Solo, sir?”  Thomas asked.  
  
“My partner.   You know the Casanova of UNCLE, the CEA.”  
  
“Sorry sir, I’ve never met a Solo.  Please get in so we can get you back to headquarters as quickly as possible.  Mr. Waverly is waiting for you,” Robinson requested pushing the back door open.  
  
As Illya climbed in, “How long have you been at New York’s headquarters?  
  
“Thomas and I were assigned there about a year ago.  Did you have a hard time completing your assignment sir?” Robinson asked.  
  
Instead of answering Illya  closed his eyes. A few minutes later Illya opened them again, “I hope that I am not going to have to still put up with the aftermath of Slate’s joke.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“The explosion of the gunk he created before I left. Even my office reeked of it. Surely you smelt it.  The whole of headquarters was overwhelmed with it.” Illya complained.  
  
“We were lucky sir, and out on a run.  Missed the whole thing.”  Robinson said.  
  
“It must have been a long run as I was there four days before going out on assignment and it was still reeking.” Illya tested to prove that this wasn’t his imagination but someone after him, Napoleon, or both of them.  
  
“We had a three-day weekend, then a number of runs in a row.   Guess we lucked out sir,” Thomas smiled.  
  
That was the final proof that he needed.   He hadn’t imagined that something was wrong. He knew it.  Mark had been in England all week and not due back for another one.   Reaching for his gun, the separation window began to rise as gas began to fill the back of the car.  Illya had expected something like this and was able to get his small breathing device in before becoming overcome by the gas.


	5. Chapter 5 by Mlaw

Alexander Waverly paced his conference room, which was very much out of character for him.

  


It was enough for his assistant, Lisa Rogers, to take notice and as she brought in a tray with her boss’s afternoon tea, she finally said something. It wasn’t often she’d found him this distracted.

  


Alexander Waverly was always the epitome of cool and collected...well, apparently not today.

  


 

“I brought you Camomile sir, to calm your nerves”

  


“Wot...calm my nerves?”

  


“Yes sir, you’ve been pacing non-stop like a caged animal.”

  


“So I have my dear,” he finally sat down at his large circular table.

  


Lisa set the tray down in front of him and poured from the teapot into a porcelain tea cup with an oriental motif. It was a scene of tranquility, one she hoped wouldn't be lost on Waverly.

  


He sighed as she passed the cup and saucer to him, neglecting to put in his usual one lump of sugar, just to see if he noticed.

  


It was obvious after he took an absent minded sip that he hadn’t; that told Lisa she needed to speak up.

  


“Mister Waverly sir, what’s wrong? I’m more than willing to be a sounding board if you need me to do so.”

  


“You know me all too well my dear. Please be seated,” he did notice she’d brought a second cup and saucer.

  


“Pour yourself a cuppa and sit with me for a moment.”

  


Lisa did as asked; once she seated herself, she took a sip of her beverage and waited.

  


The Old Man said nothing, that was until his finally assistant cleared her throat.

  


“I’m afraid my dear, something has happened to Mister Solo and Mister Kuryakin.”

  


“I thought they were finished with their assignment and were returning to headquarters.”

  


“You are correct, they were, but somehow we’ve lost contact with them.”

  


“Do you think it’s related to their assignment?”

  


“No, that came to a successful conclusion with Mr. Kuryakin suffering relatively minor injuries….nothing to require medical attention mind you. Mister Solo informed me that his partner and he were mostly exhausted and had contacted me for approval to get a motel room for the night. I cautioned him not to let the expenses get out of hand; those were the last words I spoke to him.”

  


“Sir, they’ve gone missing before…”

  


“Yes, yes I know they can take care of themselves, but I have a bad feeling about this particular disappearance. I rarely let my emotions get involved when it comes to my agents; I’m afraid my instincts are telling me they’re in deep trouble.”

  


Lisa took another sip of tea and put down her cup and saucer; she was unsure of what to say.

  


“Miss Rogers, if you’d be so kind to contact the Albany field office for me. I think it’s time to do some preliminary investigating ourselves...oh and yes, Dancer and Slate. Please have them report here immediately.”

  


“With pleasure sir,” Lisa cleared the tray and china, heading immediately to her desk just outside the conference room door. She's wasn't sure what exactly she'd done, but was glad to see the Old Man had suddenly become decisive. Perhaps just speaking out loud about his concerns did it.

  


April and Mark were sitting in the Commissary when the call came for them to report to Mister Waverly.

  


“On our way,” April responded on the way out, using the black house phone located on the wall just to the right of the doors. She straightened her yellow mini dress, one she’d coordinated with a pair of white vinyl boots and a matching cap.

  


Mark was standing beside her as she answered the call. He, unlike his partner, was dressed surprisingly conservative considering his London background. Today the Brit was wearing a grey turtleneck, a grey cardigan sweater, and grey trousers. Luckily he’d left that awful corduroy hat of his in their office.

  


“Darling, whatever happened to you and the Carnaby Street influence. I swear you’re dressing like an old man lately."

  


“April, sometimes comfort has more meaning than fashion.”

  


She responding with a quick spin in the corridor, eliciting a cat call from, all people, George Dennell who was just passing by.

  


“Well this is quite in vogue, and comfy too,"she grinned.

  


“April luv, you could make a potato sack look chic and comfortable.”

  


“Mark dear, flattery will get you everywhere.”

  


They arrived promptly in answer to Waverly’s summons and were immediately directed by the Old Man to be seated at the conference table.

  


“I’m afraid that Messrs Solo and Kuryakin have gone missing. Mister Solo called in a request to spend the night at a motel located approximately four hours north of New York as they needed to recoup from their last assignment, which was successful by the way. This morning neither of them contacted headquarters and we have not been able to raise them.”

  


“Where were they sir?” Mark asked.

  


“Good question young man. Mister Solo failed to give me the location and name of the motel at which they were staying...I must be slipping, as I should have asked him but I neglected to do so." His brow was furrowed and lowering his head, his bushy eyebrows hid his eyes.

  


“No signals from either of their communicators sir?” April asked.

  


“Not a thing I’m afraid," he raised his head again. "Their communicators aren’t on, otherwise we’d be able to triangulate a position as to their current location.”  
  
Waverly tapped his pipe into a crystal ashtray in front of him before refilling the bowl with tobacco from his nearby wooden humidor. It took but a few seconds for him to strike a match, and puff a few times before the smoke from his briar pipe rose into the air.

  


“Four hours from here, that’s a fair bit of territory to cover,” Mark said.

  


“Indeed. I have a list of motels and hotels located four hours away being drawn up as we speak.”

  


“That might not be necessary sir,” April interjected.”Illya...I mean Mister Kuryakin, once told me that he had a tracking chip installed beneath the stone of Mister Solo’s star sapphire ring as a birthday gift. We might be able to locate him that way.”

  


“I’d completely forgotten about that Miss Dancer. Excellent. We’ll have communications check all frequencies to see if a signal is coming from the ring. In the meantime, I’d like you to travel north. Once we have a lock on the signal, we’ll give you a more specific location.”

  


Mark and April departed immediately, and as Waverly had predicted the signal from Napoleon’s ring helped them narrow down their search parameters.

  


Four hours later they arrived at a local motel; it was the only one that had been in the vicinity of the signal. Seeing no cars parked there at all sent them to the office where they flashed photographs of Napoleon and Illya, though the clerk there denied ever having seen either man.

  


He was a young guy, medium build, probably in his early twenties. As Mark thought, the lad still had his spots.

  


“Haven’t had anyone check in for the last couple of days. Sorry can’t be of more help.”

  


“Thank you,” April said. She turned her back to the clerk, pointing to the pinky finger of her left hand.

  


Mark looked down at the clerk’s hand, noticing him wearing a white gold star sapphire ring, identical to the one Napoleon wore.

  


Mark opened his communicator and there was the signal, loud and clear. It was Solo’s ring for sure.”

  


“Wait a jif, mate. Where’d you get that ring? Looks just like one owned by my friend.”

  


The clerk immediately panicked and tried to dash through a door behind the desk, but he never made it as Dancer hit him with a sleep dart in the back of his neck.

  


The crew arrived from the Albany office and they proceeded to tear apart the motel...

 


	6. Chapter 6 by Sidhe_uaine44

  
Illya Kuriakin fought the desire to start scratching his exposed skin as it reacted to the noxious fumes. One of the strangers looked at him, taking notes while the young Soviet resisted the urge to strip down to his birthday suit.

'Interesting. We didn't know that the combination of these chemicals could cause second-degree burns on contact. We're going to have to inform our contacts.'

Illya realized that the person wasn't speaking any language that he was familiar with, narrowing where they were from. He then tried asking once more about his friend and partner, Napoleon Solo.

"Where is Napoleon?"

"We're sorry but we cannot give you any alcohol, not even brandy. We were told that it's contraindicated. You could die if you drank anything but water."

Illya expressed his combination of discomfort and displeasure in a stream of invectives from every language that he knew.

**Napoleon, I  _will_  find you, then I  _will **destroy**_  these people!**

______________________________________________________________

Napoleon Solo slowly slid off of the seat of the vehicle he was in, then started involuntarily twitching, growing into a full-blown seizure. The man who was initially on Napoleon's right took out a clipboard, then started taking notes.

'This is unexpected. Our contacts didn't prepare us for this result.'

**I wonder if Illya understands what they're saying. Oh, God, give me back control of my body!**

His eyes rolled back as he lost consciousness, but not before he vomited on the vehicle's carpeting.

_________________________________________________________

April Dancer and Mark Slate faced a young man, April's arms crossed and Mark standing akimbo.

"We're going to ask you one more time. Where did you get this ring?" April's voice expressing her frustration with the prisoner.

"I don't know what you're talking about! I inherited it from my grandfather!"

"Mark?"

"Yes, April?"

"Should we show him what we do to liars and thieves?" Her lips curved into a Mona Lisa smile.

"Maybe after the Old Man is through with him. Or after Agents Morris and Baba Yaga are through..."

"Ah, that's true. Morris and Baba Yaga haven't had a decent scratching post for a while now. They need the exercise. I'll go get them." The first female Section 2 agent unfolded her arms, rose, then turned toward the only door to the interrogation room. She quickly grabbed the star sapphire ring before the prisoner could react, slipping it between her shoe and her stocking.  



	7. Chapter 7 by ssclassof56

  
Lisa Rogers buzzed in to her chief. After a few seconds’ delay, she received Waverly’s distracted response. “Yes.”

“Sir, Director MacDonald of Intelligence and Counter Espionage is on a secure line. He says it’s urgent.”

Papers shuffled. “Oh, all right. Put him through.”  
  
Minutes passed. The buzzer on Lisa’s desk activated. “Coffee, Miss Rogers,” Waverly said gruffly.

She could read his tone. Weary. Unsettled. This was not the time for a cup of commissary joe.

Waverly’s eyebrows lifted when she entered with the laden tray, but he did not object. He watched the ritual of the syphon coffee maker in silence, puffing meditatively on his pipe. As she started to pour a shot of brandy into his cup, he opened his mouth to object, then closed it again at her pointed look. “Thank you,” he said when she passed him the coffee, his eyes twinkling. 

He sipped his fortified brew and nodded in satisfaction. “For several days, MacDonald lost contact with one of his top agents,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “When Helm returned, he claimed he’d been headlining in Las Vegas. He threatened to quit. Declared he’d found his true purpose.”

Lisa sat down. “Why call us? What do we have to do with one of their agents going on a bender?”

As he drank, Waverly raised a finger, indicating the answer was forthcoming. “It was all a fantasy, of course, as you say. I.C.E. psychiatrists have been attempting to recover his true memories. They’re fragmented at best, but they contain an encounter with a woman matching Miss Dancer’s description.”

“April’s just returned from Greece.”

“Precisely. A ridiculous suggestion. However, it took all my charm to persuade MacDonald that our agency was not involved.”

Lisa’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Do you think it’s related to Napoleon and Illya’s disappearance?” 

“No reason why it should be. And yet…”

“Sir, I’m acquainted with Mat—Agent Helm.” 

“Are you? In what way?”

“He wanted me to be one of his calendar girls.”

“Indeed.”

“If he went missing, I guarantee there was a woman involved,” she said scornfully, “just not April Dancer. As for the rest of his wild story, the man is practically pickled in alcohol.”

Waverly grunted and returned to his coffee. Sensing her dismissal, Lisa began to clean up the table. “Should I leave the pot?”

“Seeds of dissension,” Waverly replied.

“Pardon?”

“Who benefits from sowing seeds of dissension between our organizations?”

“Who else?” Lisa picked up the tray, leaving the pot behind on its stand. “If you authorize me to use Code Orange, I can have the heads of our counterpart agencies on a conference call within the hour.”

Waverly looked at his watch. “Yes, do that. And in the meantime, have Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate update me on their progress with that desk clerk.”

 

 

The jumpsuited technician straightened in his chair as his superior entered the control room. 

“How is sleeping beauty,” she purred, “and the beast?”

The technician looked through the thick glass panel at the two men strapped to the beds, then down at his instrument panel. “Vital signs are good. Neural activity stable.”

“Really?” She leaned over him, her fur stole brushing his cheek, and tapped a crimson nail against an oscilloscope. 

He swallowed. “It’s within prescribed tolerances.”

“Not within mine.” She turned a dial a single click to the left. The erratic line assumed a more regular frequency. 

“We’re doing something in hours that usually takes days,” he said defensively. “They’ve gotta be on one hell of a trip.”

Perching on the edge of his station, she took a thin stack of punch cards from her handbag. “A change of stimuli.”

“Again?”

“An unfortunate necessity. It was as I thought. UNCLE agents have already taken that stupid desk clerk. They are combing the motel as we speak. Solo and Kuryakin must be released tonight.”

He reached for the intercom. “Maybe I should check with Dr. Debree first.”

Her long eyes narrowed. He had seen that same look when she had discovered that Solo’s ring was missing. 

He quickly held out his hand, but she whipped the cards out of his reach. “No. I will do it.”

“But my orders are to—”

“Your orders are to get out.” She shrugged the fur stole from her shoulders. A mink’s lifeless head dropped onto his console. “You saw what became of that incompetent fool this morning. Do you wish to join him?”

The technician recalled how Solo’s hapless captor had been marched away, a rifle at his back. “Yes, Miss La Chien. I mean, no, Miss La Chien.” He sprang from his chair and quickly exited the control room.

Angelique set the cards in the aperture and turned on the reader. As it noisily consumed the data, she pressed another button. The glass door between the control room and the prisoners disappeared into the wall. 

Kuryakin was dressed in only his underwear, as he had been when Dr. Dabree’s gas had put him in this catatonic state. She ran her fingers lightly up his bruised torso. “A pity you’re so grim.”

She adjusted the small machine connected to their IVs. It whirred and hissed as more of Dabree’s psychotropic drugs were released.

Napoleon wore striped pajamas. A mass of sensors marred his handsome visage. His eyelids fluttered rapidly as the drugs entered his bloodstream and new stimuli flooded his brain. 

She leaned down and kissed him. His cool lips puckered slightly under hers but did not work their usual magic. She lifted her head with a sigh. “See you in your dreams, darling.”

 

 

Napoleon opened his eyes. He lay on a soft bed, enveloped in cool, silky sheets. City lights winked from beyond the terrace. Moonlight slanted in through the French doors. The rest of the bedroom was cloaked in shadows. 

He was not alone. A hand touched his chest. “Sweetheart, you’re awake.” The dulcet tones came from the pillow beside him. “How do you feel?”

“Rough. How did I get here? The last thing I remember…” 

“Yes?”

What was the last thing he remembered? Like the room, his mind was also cloaked in shadows. “I don’t know. Everything is fuzzy.”

“The doctor said it would be that way. It was those terrible drugs they gave you.”

A memory stirred. “Yes, the gas. It made me sick.”

“Poor darling. But still you fought like a tiger and got away.” Her fingers worked the buttons on his pajama top, unfastening them one by one.

“What about”—he searched his murky thoughts—“Thomas and Robinson?”

“Mark and April were sent after them. Mr. Waverly wanted you to stay in Medical, but I convinced him your wife would be a much better cure.” She tugged at the strings of his pajama bottoms.

A vague sense of unease nagged at him. Pursuing it made his head ache. He abandoned his concerns and gave in to the anticipation stirred by her busy hand.

She leaned over him, her hair shining like platinum in the moonlight. “You’re right, love,” he said, as her lips moved toward his. “All I need is right here.” 

 

 

“Well, well,” the doctor said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together, “and how’s our patient today?”

Illya glared at him. “Ready to get out of this bed,” he mumbled around the thermometer in his mouth.

The doctor chuckled. “Yes, you’ve been saying that since the moment we put you in it. And as I’ve said, chemical burns are nothing to sneeze at.” He wagged his finger. “Your skin is a vital organ too, you know, and it needs time to heal properly.”

“Can I have my CEA back now, Doctor?” Waverly asked impatiently.

“I don’t think you ever lost him. The man’s been running his whole section from this bed. Agents and secretaries parading in and out all day.” He chuckled again. “I should have installed a revolving door.”

“Yes, and he’s twice as effective when on his feet. I’ve never had a better CEA. Why, we’re on the verge of dismantling Thrush once and for all. I need my top agent back in the field.”

The doctor removed the thermometer from Illya’s mouth and nodded in approval at the reading. “A few days of restricted duty until the last bandages come off, and then he’s free to topple world crime syndicates once more.” With another chuckle, the doctor left. 

Waverly stared at his agent from beneath bushy brows. 

“Yes, sir?” Illya asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that whole emperor business.”

Illya sighed. “Please, sir. That was a delusion brought on by the drugs I had been administered.”

“Of course, of course,” Waverly replied with a restless wave of his hand. “But it made me wonder if we should revisit the idea of your having a partner.”

Blond hair danced across his brow as he shook his head vehemently. “No, we should not. A partner is a liability I categorically refuse to take on.”

“You still prefer to fly solo, eh?”

Illya frowned in annoyance at the phrase. “Yes, sir. I work better alone.”  
  



	8. Chapter 8 by Jantojones

_Blond hair danced across his brow as he shook his head vehemently. “No, we should not. A partner is a liability I categorically refuse to take on.”_  
  
“You still prefer to fly solo, eh?”  
  
Illya frowned in annoyance at the phrase. “Yes, sir. I work better alone.”  
  
“Never-the-less my boy, I believe you would benefit from a partner,” Waverly insisted, “With us so close to reaching our victory over THRUSH, your workload has trebled, and I wouldn’t want you to burn out before you can reap the rewards.”  
  
Illya’s frown deepened. Something felt off, but every time the reason floated near to his consciousness, it skittered away as he tried to grab it.   
  
“Do you have someone in mind, Sir?” he asked, barely keeping the frustration from his voice.  
  
“Indeed I do,” the Old Man replied. “Come to my office in half an hour and I’ll introduce you.”  
  
Illya watched his boss walk away, and wondered who the agent could possibly be. Waverly had said he would ‘introduce’ him, which suggested someone new to the command. Although he felt unsure about this turn of events, Illya decided to keep it, and other worries, to himself. He had already told Mr Waverly that he’d accepted the ‘hallucination’ of Napoleon as an effect of the drugs he had been given, but this was a lie. He’d only said it in order to get out of medical quicker and avoid any entanglements with the psychiatrist.   
  
Illya was determined to solve the mysteries of, not only Napoleon’s disappearance, but also of why no-one else remembered him. For this, he needed full access to everything, which he wouldn’t have if he were trapped in medical. Firstly though, Illya needed to meet the ‘partner’ Waverly had suddenly decide to spring on him.   
  
............................................................................................  
  
The woman who was claiming to be his wife did a very good job of distracting Napoleon for quite some time. She was exceptionally skilled in her love-making, and seemed to know just what to do to his body to get the right reactions. Whilst this lent credence to her claim of being his wife, there was still something deep in his mind which was urgently begging for begging for his attention.  
  
Once they were both thoroughly spent, Napoleon waited for the woman to go to sleep before getting out of the bed and heading for the living room. He perched on the edge of the sofa and tried to sort out the muddle in his head.  
  
The woman softly sleeping in the next room was someone he vaguely recognised, but Solo was certain she couldn’t be his wife. Whilst it wasn’t technically against U.N.C.L.E. policy, marriage was strongly discouraged for active agents. On top of that, Napoleon simply wasn’t the settling down type.  
  
He searched the depths of memories in an attempt to at least find a name for the woman. Apart from anything else, if she was indeed his wife, he should know what to call her. However, try as he might, he couldn’t come up with anything, other than a disquieting sense of distrust. Something was telling him she was a dangerous woman.  
  
Napoleon sighed deeply and shifted his thoughts to his other mystery. He had been told that there was no such person as Illya Kuryakin but, in the fog of his memory, he could remember the Russian quite clearly. They had endured and survived far too much together, and Napoleon could recall too many complex details for Illya to be a mere figment of his imagination.  
  
“Where are you, Tovarisch?” he asked the empty room.  
  
It turned out not to be empty.  
  
“Who are you talking to, Darling?” came a female voice from behind him.  
  
Napoleon stood up and turned to face his ‘wife’.   
  
She was leaning languorously against the door frame, causing a stirring in Napoleon’s lust.  
  
“Just trying to clear my head,” Solo answered.  
  
The woman held out a hand, inviting him back to bed. Napoleon smiled wantonly, and accepted her invitation. He had many questions which needed answers and, for now, he would concentrate on finding out who the gorgeous platinum blonde really was.   
  
............................................................................................  
  
“Ah, Mr Kuryakin. Come in and meet your new partner.”  
  
Illya shifted his gaze from his boss to the other man in the room. He was tall, dark-haired, and dark-eyed. He was wearing a shapeless, grey, off-the-peg suit, and no tie.  
  
“This is Peter Flowers,” Waverly told him. “He’s been at the Melbourne HQ for seven years.”  
  
The Russian kept his expression neutral, not wanting to alert either man to the alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind. Illya had spent two months in Melbourne less than a year previously, and he was absolutely certain there had been no Peter Flowers. Shaking the man’s hand, he welcomed him to the command.  
  
“Excellent,” Waverly enthused, almost gleefully, causing another alarm bell to ring for Illya. “I’m sure I can leave it to you to show Mr Flowers around. As he is now effectively third in command, he will need a comprehensive security breakdown, including all the relative pass codes.”  
  
Illya now knew his instincts were steering him right. The Alexander Waverly he knew wouldn’t issue such instruction without first giving Illya the opportunity to research Flowers for himself. He couldn’t yet begin to understand what was happening, but he was going to make it a priority to find out.  
  
............................................................................................  
  
Angelique watched with concern as the Russian weakly thrashed in his restraints. He seemed to be fighting against the psychotropic drugs but she couldn’t risk giving him anymore. She didn’t particularly want to disturb Dr Dabree, so decided to wait a little longer to see if he would settle down. Angelique sighed in frustration. The little runt was an irritation to her but, unfortunately, one she’d had to accept. Napoleon was too much fun so, in order to spend time with him, she was forced to put up with Kuryakin hovering around somewhere in the background; though hopefully not literally.  
  
She turned back to her part-time lover. There was a slight smile on his face which suggested he was enjoying whatever vision he was imagining. The smile made Angelique’s heart quicken, but she hastily suppressed those thoughts. It was a shame to have to put him through all this but, at the end of the day she was Thrush, and he was U.N.C.L.E. Contrary to what many of colleagues believed, she was quite willing to sacrifice Napoleon to achieve their aims. The wonderful plan that Dr Dabree had concocted was complex but, with Angelique’s help, Napoleon and his gloomy partner would be the key to the Hierarchy’s ultimate victory.   
  
Maybe, when their part in the plan was over, she would be allowed to keep the beautiful brunet.  
  
.


	9. Chapter 9 by girlintheglen

_In 1965, the world began its journey into a fantastic new era of computer generated vistas when Ivan Sutherland, an American computer scientist and Harvard associate professor, wrote a paper titled_ _Augmented Reality: The Ultimate Display._ _It was the beginning of what we know today as Virtual Reality._

………………………

 

 

Napoleon cavorted under the sheets with his blonde  _wife_ , a distraction he often indulged while his partner continued to take care of world saving business.Today was no exception, or so it seemed.  
  
While Solo struggled with the nagging suspicions that things weren’t quite right, Illya was proactively resisting the mind bending environment into which he had been involuntarily thrust.

 

 

Kuryakin could compartmentalize his experiences. It was a gift, albeit at times, a hindrance to establishing the deeper kinds of relationships he truly longed for.His mind worked at things, untying knots and digging down deep into situations, problems, anything that disrupted his sense of equalibrium.

 

At the moment, his equilibrium was definitely out of balance.

 

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Kuryakin was recalling articles he had read in some scientific journals; he had a vague memory of seeing a man in a strange headset of some sort, the object being to transmit images that would make a person feel as though he were part of that image.

 

As the fake Waverly enthused over a new man who would be partner to Kuryakin, the Russian was estimating the probability that THRUSH had somehow hijacked and perfected the science of Augmented Reality.

 

That had to be it, no other explanation would be sufficient to his questions.Illya had to continue to resist, and he wondered, in the midst of whatever he was experiencing, if anyone else could see what he saw now.

 

“Nyet.” He said it aloud, causing Angelique to turn off her own little virtual reality that she was sharing with Napoleon.Why had Kuryakin spoken aloud?

 

She approached one of the technicians.

 

“Can you tell what he’s doing in there? I didn’t think they usually talked back.” The technician shrugged his shoulders.He was unsure about most of this set up, the Dabree dame was a scary person and he was fine with just following orders.

 

“Sorry, I doubt it has any real meaning.He’s just saying no to someone in … in… “ Knowing anything about this business was way above his pay grade.

 

Angelique understood, and it would do not good to try and get anything meaningful from this fellow.Dabree was a brilliant woman, but she didn’t always like to share information if it might mean another person could benefit from her work.It was highly unlikely she would have explained very much to a lowly THRUSH technician.

 

“Fine, I didn’t really expect you to know.It’s just, well… sort of curious is all.”

 

She left Kuryakin's room, and upon entering the other experimental chamber,  moved closer to the bed where Napoleon was enjoying another round of love making with the wife he didn’t remember.There might yet be answers to his questions if he could just get her to open up and … He laughed out loud at his own pun. It was enough to make Angelique dismiss what Illya had said.Apparently these two were deep in it.

 

Illya opened up a chamber of his mind and brought up the paper he had read recently; it was written by a scientist and Harvard professor name Ivan Sutherland.The topic had been fascinating to Illya, and as he lay in the bed, seemingly engaged in the suggested scenario (in which he would tell all concerning the various codes and identities requested by the faux Waverly), the Russian was utilizing a memory so keen it was considered eidetic, or photographic.The Sutherland paper spoke of a new, false reality that could be generated through the use of computers.That had to be it, and he knew instinctively that he was wearing one of the headsets that Sutherland had demonstrated.

 

Illya willed himself to come out of the induced state of hallucination.He had no doubt that Napoleon was also being controlled by whatever this contraption was.No doubt THRUSH had included drugs in their use of the technology, a detail that might make getting completely free of it a little more difficult.The trick would be to look as though he were still under the spell of this augmented reality, while he was actually fighting it.His suspicions were on high alert.

 

Napoleon Solo loved women, he loved making love to them and he was addicted, more than he liked to admit, to the ecstasy of sex.He wasn’t indiscriminate, as Illya often accused him of being, but rather he admitted to being self-indulgent where sex was concerned, somewhat of an expert on the act and art of it.

 

The art was missing in his current, shall we say, endeavors.There was a degree of pleasure, certainly his partner (the wife, apparently), was enthusiastic enough.That was generally the case, although he knew that something was missing, as though he were more the observer than the participant.

 

Bam! That’s how he knew it wasn’t real.But how could it not be real?What was going on and how was he supposed to get out of whatever sort of hallucination he was experiencing?

 

And where was his partner, because as sure as he knew his name was Napoleon Solo, he knew he had a partner and that his name was Illya Kuryakin.

 

 

Even in the dream state in which Illya was now engaged, the Russian was calculating the means by which he might break free completely.Years of training by both the Soviets and UNCLE were a safeguard against mind control or psychotropics, at least to a degree.As he was dismissed from his meeting with the other Waverly, a deft move on Illya’s part considering the plan seemed to be for him to part with valuable information, he used the time to further evaluate the situation.

 

There was no doubt in the mental compartment in which he was carrying on this disengagement from what he now understood to be an augmented reality, that THRUSH had somehow taken the fledgling technology of Sutherland’s paper and turned it into an  _actual reality._

 

What Illya needed to do was thwart the effects being directed at him to keep the deception going; he must use his mind to block out the THRUSH tactic and regain control. _He must wake up_.

 

Having gone back to the room in which Napoleon was ‘sleeping’, Angelique realized that, although she might be willing to sacrifice this man, it would be a personal loss. Keeping Napoleon under the spell of this new reality would be her first choice, if it could be allowed.  As for Kuryakin, he was deeply embedded in his false scenario, she could see it on his face; that determination to obey and succeed.She knew him only too well, he would be only too eager to cooperate.

 

As Angelique mistook Kuryakin’s expression for compliance, he was extricating himself from the device and its effect.Little by little he withdrew from the falsehoods, walked backwards as he viewed the dissipation of Waverly’s office, the fading faces of people who did not exist.With no signs of his exodus in the monitors that were intended to alert the technicians to changes or anomalies, Illya Kuryakin willed himself to awaken from the dream.

 

He opened one eye.No one hovered over him.He opened both eyes now, surveying the room, taking note that there was only one man, over in a corner of the room where he appeared to be reading a chart.It was, no doubt, Illya’s chart.If all went as he intended, the final entry would be of his escape.

 

There was something on his head.That must be the apparatus that controlled the dream state.He had a patch of some sort on his chest, probably to monitor his heart.Illya realized now that he was naked beneath the sheet; that seemed to be a constant reality where THRUSH was concerned.No matter, he would simply borrow some clothes from the technician; in a matter of minutes the man wouldn’t be needing them.

 

With practiced stealth, Illya began to extricate himself from the head gear, the wires and patches that connected him to a machine he now reasoned was the brain that dictated the alternate, or augmented reality.He would need to examine that concept more closely… another day.For now he would simply get out of bed.

 

The technician realized too late that his subject was not only free, Kuryakinwas delivering a karate chop that left him senseless.When he was eventually discovered in a small closet, there was no memory of the Russian’s approach, only the dread he experienced before being plunged into darkness.

 

Illya donned the man’s clothing, grateful for a lab coat that created the disguise he needed in order to wander the halls, find Napoleon and free him from whatever strange dream was controlling his subconscious.After poking his head in various rooms, none of which gave him a clue to his partner’s location, Illya finally saw something that made him want to shoot someone… a very particular someone.

 

_Angelique._

 

He spat out her name under his breath.It wouldn’t do to actually engage with the woman.It shouldn’t have surprised him that she was involved, and yet he did believe she had some sort of affection for his friend.If she was involved in this then her loyalty to THRUSH was now firmly established as of more importance to her than was Napoleon.In that reality, he reasoned, there would be ample justification for killing her, if necessary.

 

Obviously, Napoleon was in the room from which she had emerged.All that was necessary now was to get to him, and then get out.  
  
  
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_***For more on_[ Augmented Reality](https://mashable.com/2012/09/24/augmented-reality/)


	10. Chapter 10 by Alynwa

Napoleon, like Illya, has the ability to separate his mind from what his body is feeling; every UNCLE agent does. In the Survival School class that taught them how to do it, the instructor had advised that each man visualize something that would help him achieve that goal. For Napoleon, he imagined a room in his mind, a room he could enter with a solid door with double – sided windows from which he could look out. It was there that he put himself now; closing the door securely behind him, he turned and looked out the window.

 

He could “see” that his mind was enjoying having sex with his wife, but no matter how much he concentrated, he could not feel any physical sexual excitement or satisfaction.  _Okay,_  he thought,  _I’m not really having sex, so it’s safe to say that perhaps this woman isn’t my wife._

He looked farther down the corridors of his mind so that he could see the woman’s face through his eyes. She seemed so familiar.  _Who are you?_ Just then, his “wife” executed a move that, had his body truly been involved, would have elicited a response from him that would have brought him to the brink of release and in fact, the part of his mind that thought it was making love groaned loudly.

He moved away from the window to think. It was his experience that not many women felt comfortable with their sexuality and bodies and because of that, they were not completely comfortable in bed, even when they wanted to be there, they were shy and reluctant to take the lead.Only one woman he had ever been with had been confident enough to perform that particular act. The first time she had done it to him, he had almost lost control of himself, one of the rare times he had shown vulnerability in the presence of an enemy.  _Angelique, you laughed when we finished and said I was lucky you didn’t feel like killing me that night or I would have been a goner. So. Now you’re appearing in this…this delusion as my_ wife? _That’s no coincidence!_

 _Okay, Napoleon, what do you know,_ he asked himself as he began to “pace” within the imaginary room.  _This is a hallucination brought on by…I think I remember being gassed. Angelique is involved, so THRUSH must be, too. I didn’t think so before. They’re trying to get me to believe I’m married to her, so when I wake up, I will give them information they want. Now. What_ don’t  _I know? I don’t know what information they want. I don’t know how long they’ve had me. I don’t know where Illya is._

Napoleon stopped pacing and “sat” in a chair he had created for himself.  _They don’t know that I know the illusion isn’t real, so unless something changes, I’m going to continue to play this game. I have to see this thing through._


	11. Chapter 11 by jkkitty

  
Illya waited until Angelique disappeared around the corner before heading toward the room.  Figuring there would be a monitor in Napoleon’s room as there was in his, he opened the door only a crack.  A man was sitting facing the other way so Illya finished opening the door quickly heading for the operator.

“Forget something, Angelique?” the operator asked as he turned toward the door only to be greeted by a fist. 

Illya used a hard downward strike across the bridge of the nose causing a clean cartilage break followed by using the base of the palm of  his hand to strike the top of the nose at the precise angle driving the broken shaft of cartilage directly under and along the remaining cartilage left above the break guiding the bottom shaft through the very tiny passage allowing it to bypass the protective plate and pierce the brain.  A precise and difficult technique that UNCLE had insisted all agents learn had the Thrush agent dead on the floor.

Quickly he headed toward the bed holding his partner.  Hoping that Napoleon had also recognized that the situation was a hallucination, he yanked the headphone off the agent.  A moment later Napoleon’s eyes began to blink open.  “Illya?”

“Yes, now we need to get out of here before your girlfriend returns,” Illya said helping Napoleon sit up.  “Can you stand?”

“Of course,” Napoleon said as he stood right up before landing on the floor.  “I guess that should have been no.  How is it you can be moving so well?”

“Sorry. I came out of the hallucinations slowly.  The shock to your body has not caught up to your mind yet.  I get you the operator’s clothes while you relax for a moment.”   Helping his partner up on the bed, Illya went over to the dead man.

“What do you think they want from us?” Napoleon asked fighting off waves of dizziness.

“My mind Waverly was looking for the report from our last assignment.  They don’t seem to be aware that we gave our verbal report before stopping last night."  Handing the clothes to his partner, “Need help with them?”

“I can manage.  The assignment was important but not that significant to go through all this trouble to retrieve it.   Any ideas Illya?”  The American slowly put on the clothes resting frequently.

“While coming out of the hallucinations I thought about it.   I believe we saw or heard something we did not recognize as noteworthy.  Something that they need to know if we passed on or not.”

“Possible, but I really can’t think of anything that we may have accidentally uncovered that would have been worth the expense and elaborate game their playing with us.  Help me up.  Before we escape, I think we need to make sure to destroy this base before they use this on others.”  

Illya rubbed his hands together, “Let me take a look at the control panel.”  

As the dizziness decreased, Napoleon walked over by the Russian who was flipping switches, turning dials and swearing. He was moving the operator’s body behind the control panel when he heard. 

“ _Зрозумів_ ” Illya yelled out as all the lights on the board starting flashing red.

“Success?”

“We better move if we don’t wish to go up with the building,” Illya headed toward the door.

As he reached for the doorknob, it opened.   Angelique  and a man in a lab coat stood with guns pointed at them.    
“Going someplace boys?”  She asked.  
  



	12. Chapter 12 by Mlaw

Coming face to face with the enemy, especially the likes of Angelique La Chien, was the last thing Kuryakin wanted to deal with at the moment.  He was under a time constraint, having set things to detonate in order to blow up the facility, as well as having to deal with Napoleon not quite being up to speed. He truly had no idea when things would actually go 'boom.' He wasn't familiar with the systems running here and he only hoped the feedback loop he thought he created would eventually cause an explosion which would inturn set fire to the place.

  
  


There wasn’t even time to really discuss what either of them had truly experienced while under THRUSH’s latest spell-inducing endeavor.   True, the birds were seeking details from a specific mission as they seemed to want to know what information had been acquired during their last UNCLE assignment.

  
More specifically they wanted codes revealed during Illya’s nightmarish sessions, that’s what helped give the scheme away. Waverly and U.N.C.L.E. would already know said codes and therefore would not have been eager for Kuryakin to use them while filing his reports, especially codes were never involved with such a task.  
  
Only those unfamiliar with the inner workings of the U.N.C.L.E. wouldn't know that. Yet what was it that was so important to whomever was doing this to him in regards to this last assignment, which could only have been described as routine….even mundane.  
  
That was a moot point in the Russian’s mind now that he and Solo’s path to escape was blocked by none other than Angelique La Chien and another THRUSH lackey.  
  
It was Napoleon who reacted to her first, taking the lead and hoping Illya would follow.  
  
“There you are gorgeous!” He held his arms wide open as he moved towards her although he was teetering a bit; he seemingly ignored the gun in her hand.  
  
”My beautiful wife, I was a little concerned as to what was going on. I was woken up on some sort of medical table by this Russian guy who I think is a Commie, and you were nowhere in sight. My heart rose in my throat thinking something had happened to you….are you all right?”  
  
Angelique smiled, thanking her lucky stars Napoleon was still under the spell of Dabree’s infernal machine.  
  
“Oh Napoleon darling, I was so afraid when I too woke up and you weren’t there.” She let him envelop her in his arms, believing he was still living in the reality the doctor had concocted.  
  
As Solo wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her neck, he unbuttoned the top button of her lab coat and quickly pulled the jacket down over her shoulders, allowing it to act as a straight jacket of sorts. Such a position immobilized her arms and at the same time he was able to wrest the gun from her hand.  
  
Kuryakin, watching the scenario unfold, lashed out like a cobra, slapping aside the arm of Angelique's compainion to one side while moving his left hand in the opposite direction as he snatchedthe weapon away. Illya immediately cocked his right arm and hit the man in the chin, knocking him out cold. It was all done in the blink of an eye.  
  
Angelique didn’t resist, in fact she suddenly seemed rather docile considering she'd just been disarmed and restrained at the same time.  
  
The gun she'd held was a class of weapon more often referred to as a 'Saturday Night Special', a compact mouse gun that belonged to a class of inexpensively made handguns with a barrel length of under three inches.  
  
This one in particula was a .22 caliber. " _Not a very potent weapon unless used at close range by a practiced hand, but it would have to do,'"_ Napoleon thought to himself as he donned the lab coat worn by Angelique’s fallen companion. Once finished he adjusted her lab coat, freeing her arms again. He expected a slap in the face, but instead she acted rather demurely.

  
“Cut the act Miss La Chien,” Illya said while aiming the Luger he'd acquired directly at her. “We know you have been trying to extract information from both of us, but to what purpose?"  
  
She ignored the Russian as usual, and instead spoke directly to her lover.  
  
“Darling, I was against this plan from the beginning, and I honestly do not know why they wanted some ridiculous information from you. You had obviously compromised THRUSH on your most recent endeavor, so why they wanted to know what you knew was pointless. You are always thorough, and there’s no doubt in my mind you got what you came for and had already reported it to your Mister Waverly.”  
  
“You sound like someone stalling for time,” Illya hissed.” Ignore her Napoleon, she’d say and do anything to wriggle her way out of trouble. Let us go; tie her up and leave her here for her masters to deal with she and her failure."  
  
“Oh no, Angelique is going to show us how to get out of this place. I’m sure she has a car nearby and we’ll have need of it.”  
  
Illya groused as usual when it came to his partner’s way of always finding an excuse to let Angelique live, especially when he knew the bitch would kill Solo in the blink of an eye if she had to. Their sexual shenanigans were nothing more than games, and eventually in a game there had to be a winner. How Napoleon could ignore that fact was beyond the Russian’s comprehension.  
  
“Fine!” Illya barked. “She comes, but she had better lead us to safety or her’s will be in question, this I promise.”  
  
“Always charming, you insipid little Soviet,” Angelique spat back at him.  
  
Together they left the room with the THRUSH femme fatale leading the way; the barrel of the Luger held firmly against her back by Kuryakin. Illya wasn’t quite sure if his partner would be capable of killing his lover if the need arose; better to take the possibility of making that choice from him, especially if Napoleon were not fully himself yet.  
  
"Hey, your gun's bigger than my gun," Napoleon remarked with his usual quirky sense of humor showing through.  
  
"Among other things." That's all Kuryakin said in response.  
  
Of course Napoleon screwed up his face at that remark.  
  
"Boys, now is not the time for a pissing contest,"Angelique said. That put a damper on their banter for now.  
  
Oddly enough they passed no one as the proceeded down dimly lit corridor after corridor, making left turns and right turns that all seemed to be leading almost aimlessly along, and definitely not to an exit.  
  
“Angelique if you are playing us, I swear you will die,” Illya whispered to her.  
  
“ _Terpeniye dorogaya, (patience darling),_ " she answered him in Russian. "We are almost there."  
  
Though Kuryakin did not know she spoke his language, nothing Angelique said or did surprised him.  
  
Finally they were led to a door, which they slowly opened and it revealed what looked like a reception room with windows and another door leading to the outside world.  
  
“Et voilà,” she said, this time speaking French. “I spoke the truth and here we are, your way to freedom. So are you going to take me with you or leave me here to suffer the consequences?”  
  
Napoleon looked to his partner first and was given one of those threatening blue-eyed stares. Those of course had no effect on the American as he’d become all too accustomed to them.  
  
“That act is getting old tovarisch, better find a new one.”  
  
Without warning the door burst open and there stood Agnes Dabree with a sawed off scattergun in her hands.  
  
“You traitorous creature!” She snarled at Angelique.  
  
“No, you’re wrong. I was held at gunpoint. I am their prisoner! You must believe me."  
  
Napoleon and Illya were momentarily stunned as they both thought Dabree was long dead, having fallen down an elevator shaft, but apparently not. In truth her body had gone missing, but it was assumed that no woman of her age could have survived such a drop. One of her minions had to have taken the corpse… *  
  
“And here you are at gunpoint again my dear! I knew I couldn’t trust you, not with your feelings for Solo.  Now perhaps an overdue bill will be paid after all, enh Kuryakin? Revenge for my David?"  
  
Illya aimed the pistol at Dabree as soon as he regained his wits, he reckoned that infernal machine with its virtual reality effects had altered his reaction time.  
  
Before he could squeeze the trigger Doctor Dabree fired the shotgun, hitting both Kuryakin and Angelique. Both of them staggered backward before they dropped to the floor landing side by side, and leaving Solo alone to deal with it, and the not-so good doctor.  
  
He looked down at their still bodies, small bright spots of blood seeping like little blossoms through the white of their clothing.  
  
“Now Mister Solo, it’s back to the lab with you,” Dabree said in a demented sing-song voice.  
  
”I’ll try a different approach this time, no more sex and softness for you. You'll tell me what I want to know.”  She stepped aside, and waving the gun, she indicated he walk ahead of her on their return journey.  
  
Napoleon’s mind raced, holding up his arms above his head as he stepped into the corridor.  He was worried about Illya and Angelique of course, hoping neither of them were dead. Yet his mind raced as he asked himself an important question, ‘’Did Dabree fire both barrels of the scattergun, and even more importantly, how soon was this building going to blow to smithereens? It's not like his partner was able to set a timer..."

 


	13. Chapter 13 by ssclassof56

  
Waverly pressed a button on his console and spoke into the microphone. “Has the information from our counterpart agencies been fed into the computer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the hysterical ramblings of that desk clerk?”

He fixed a pointed gaze on Slate and Dancer, who developed an immediate fascination with the light fixtures.  
  
After a second’s pause, Heather McNabb responded, “The last of it was just typed in.”

“Inform me the moment you get a result.” Waverly jabbed the button and closed the line.

“I gather your tele-conference was productive,” Mark said.

“Indeed, it was.” Waverly spun the table, sending a report around to his agents. “In the last few months, at least one operative from every major intelligence organization has gone missing. Each experienced an altered reality, one that compromised their effectiveness upon their return.”

April looked up from her copy of the report. “Matt Helm said I what?” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen Matt since New Year’s.”

“I recall that party. Didn’t he try to convince you to be his next Miss April?” Mark asked.

“Miss September, darling. Not even Matt would be that hokey.”

Waverly coughed, drawing their wayward attention. “The supposed involvement of a counterpart agency was another factor in each incident. Even the perception of time was altered. The victims insisted they had been gone for weeks, when it was really only a matter of days.” 

Mark frowned. “And who knows what information they revealed during that time?”

“The full extent of the damage remains unknown. The culprit, however, has become obvious.”

“Thrush,” Mark said grimly.

“Yes, Mr. Slate. They’ve sought to undermine the personnel, security, and reputations of the organizations that stand opposed to their villainy. But you and Miss Dancer are going to stop them.”

April twisted the star sapphire ring that hung from a chain around her neck. “Not unless we know where to look.”

The console buzzed. “Mr. Waverly, the computer has finished analyzing the data,” Heather reported. “There’s a high likelihood that the Thrush facility is on Long Island.”

“How high?”

“Eighty-three percent.”

Waverly grunted. “It will have to do.”

“We’re creating a profile of the location now.”

“Very good. Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer will retrieve it shortly.” He nodded to his agents. “Find whatever mind-altering apparatus they’ve concocted, and destroy it. And bring back Solo and Kuryakin.”

 

 

Dr. Dabree marched Napoleon back into the maze of passages. Ahead of them, a white-coated lab technician scurried across the corridor.

“You there,” Dabree barked. “Come back here. I need your assistance with Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon caught a glint of metal extending from the side passage and instinctively threw himself forward. Mark Slate ducked out from around the corner and fired. Pellets exploded from the second barrel, hitting the wall and ceiling, as Dabree staggered back. The shotgun clattered to the floor. She crumpled beside it.

Mark pulled Napoleon to his feet. “Are you hit?”

“No,” Napoleon answered, patting his purloined clothes to confirm his assertion. “But Illya wasn’t so lucky. Come on.”

Napoleon raced back to the reception room with Mark at his heels. Illya and Angelique lay on the floor, bloodied and still. April knelt between them, her communicator in hand.

“We’ve alerted the nearest hospital, Miss Dancer. There’s an ambulance on route.”

“Quick work, partner,” Mark said approvingly as April closed her communicator.

“You too, darling.” 

Napoleon grimaced down at his own mangled partner. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Is it safe to move him?” April asked.

“Them,” Napoleon corrected. “I don’t know. But Illya rigged the place to blow, and there’s probably not much time.”

Mark holstered his Special. “I’ll take the lady.”

“No, you help with Illya,” April said, pushing up her sleeves. “I’ll take her.” She grabbed Angelique’s ankles and dragged her toward the door. An ominous trail of smeared blood marked their passing.

Quickly but carefully, Mark and Napoleon lifted Illya between them and followed April outside. A siren wailed in the distance.

Napoleon jerked his chin to where the curving drive disappeared into the trees. “That way. We’ll flag down the ambulance before it gets too close.”

They staggered across the lawn toward the tree line. When they had put several yards of red-stained grass behind them, a blast shook the building. “Was that it?” Mark asked.

Napoleon turned his head to see black smoke seeping from the roof. “Knowing my partner, that’s just the opening act.” 

The agents finished their crossing to the sound of shattering glass. Flames leapt from the windows. They had just settled their wounded in the shelter of the trees when the ultimate explosion came. The ground rocked beneath their feet. Bits of falling debris rustled in the leaves above them.

Mark let out a long whistle. “What a beauty.”

“Illya missed it,” Napoleon said and twisted his lips.

April squeezed his hand. “We’ll tell him all about it when he wakes up.”  
  



	14. Epilogue by girlintheglen

Napoleon Solo knew the rules, he understood the parameters in which he was supposed to operate.  He also suspected that Angelique was nowhere in Headquarters, but rather off in some special facility where her wounds could be tended to and an interrogation facilitated by someone less  _friendly_ than himself.

 

 

"Ah, sweet Angelique." He let that escape as he watched Illya's steady breathing from a recliner in the newly decorated room in the Medical suite.  UNCLE was taking care of its own, as was expected.

 

The door opened and Napoleon looked up to see April and Mark enter the room.  She was looking a little less casual than the optimistic Brit; the continuing suspicions about Illya and the pretty agent reminded Napoleon to keep an eye on the two of them.

 

"How's our comrade?" Mark took one of the other chairs and slumped down into it, a veneer of fatigue now evident.

 

"Good, stable.  The doctor says he'll be up and at it again in about a week.' Napoleon let out an involuntary sigh as the familiar sight of standing vigil around a hospital bed bit once more at his emotions.

 

"Say, any word on, um... Angelique?"  April turned from her attention on the patient to look at her superior.

 

"Napoleon! I swear, what is it about that woman that makes you care?  If it weren't for her Illya would probably not be lying in this bed, and... " She stopped at the realization both men were looking at her with strange expressions on their faces.

 

"Miss Dancer, do you really want to go down that road?" Napoleon wasn't scolding her, but his daliances weren't open to inquisition.  Not by anyone.  Well, maybe Mister Waverly but, no one else.

 

April found a chair and sat down, the point was taken and she was finished.  Her attention shifted back to Illya as he groaned upon awaking from his drug induced sleep.  He opened his eyes, took in the room and then the three people staring at him.

 

"I'm fine. Can you get me out of here?"  He was lying, of course.  The wound site was throbbing and his head was appropriately aching.  The memory of where he'd been and the struggle to break free of the mind control device, or whatever it was, made him suddenly wary of what he was now experiencing.

 

"I know what you're thinking Illya.  This is real.  You were shot and then April and Mark showed up to save the day.  We will, of course, need to go through a thorough debriefing and some... you know." Illya grunted again, too tired to roll his eyes.

 

"A psychological exam.  I suppose it won't hurt."

 

All three of them nodded in agreement.  Each of them, including Illya, were grateful once more to be alive, intact and victorious over yet another THRUSH attack.  The world was safe for a minute.

 

Napoleon looked at each of them, all of them his friends and companions in this continuing battle against the evils that assaulted society.

 

"Anyone hungry? I think I'll make a run over to Luigi's and bring us all back something.  I think a shared meal is in order, just among friends." His smile incited a unanimous agreement.  It was good to have each other's backs.  It was good to have this bond, the friendship...

 

This had all started because of a lie, a deception intended to make Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin believe that the other didn't exist, that they didn't have partners.  But, because of the partnership they had, the experiment had failed.

 

Napoleon's thought as he exited the room on his way out of Headquarters and on to Luigi's...

 

He didn't just have a partner in Illya Kuryakin.  He had a friend, a brother.

 

This affair was over and done with.  The partnership... That would never end.


End file.
